High atop battleship hill the children stand all quiet and still
They touch so lightly, gentle spirits, sacrificed, adrift within the sun, alone
In trenches dug in dirt and clay these spirits go about their way
Apparitions that appear so plain, like shadows on a cloudy day
Are glimpsed within peripherals, in windblown grass, in history books
In some class in which I paid no attention with the lone exception
Of one spoken word, a wandering thought of dark haired girls to which I feared to talk.
And pay no mind to old men, long decayed; their doctrines that had ruled the day
Who wrote their names on fields of corn, sunken roads and shallow graves?
There’s a peace upon the sunny ground now, eclipsed by passing pillowed clouds
Their fleet existence can be seen upon our sins as they go floating on the wind
They show the way but do not stay for long on these stones of white
But are to only read forgotten names and stroll quietly about their way
For clouds are not allowed to stay within the ghostly stills, high atop Battleship hill.
